A voice is wailing from the radio, an opera, in a language I don’t understand. The gray today is like a palm pressing down on my head or worse, a pillow. One kid is in the shower with the radio going, and the other in her room on a different station. Dawn is in her office doing taxes, drinking tea. The clock in another room chimes once to signal the half hour. I have a vague idea of what time it is but I’m trying to slip out of the frame, somewhere pillowy I can float towards, like a dream. It’s days like this on the cusp of winter, the earth damp and overwrought, that all I want from a Saturday is to fry onions in bacon fat and drink dark beer. To nap by the fire and slip into the rhythm of my dog’s snoring, and not awake until spring.

Categories: prose, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, Memoir, pacific northwest, parenting, short form, William Pearse writer